


Quiescence

by Provocatrixxx



Series: The Night Sky is No Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom!John, M/M, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:31:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is the moment of decision, and John closes his eyes to keep from tightening his posture, running the pad of his thumb over the jumping pulse in Sherlock’s wrist. This is not how they play. John does not allow himself this pleasure, it is too precious, too dangerous, not worth the risk of losing such a willing and beautiful playmate for. “Don’t stop.”</i>
</p><p>After Oblivion, John cares for Sherlock and finds him in an unusually responsive mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiescence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the fantastic people in Antidiogenes for all the wars and cheering.

There is something to be said for how easy it is to overwhelm the body with simple sensation. John has seen human beings accomplish extraordinary feats, seen young men bear out more pain than most people will see in a lifetime and keep from screaming all the while. But in the end, it is so easy to break a person with little more than a steady aim and a working knowledge of anatomy. Sherlock falls apart surprisingly quickly under his ministrations, his mind lost in a deluge of sensation until he repeats over and over in increasingly broken tones the single syllable,

“Please.”

Sherlock’s back flushes pink as the blood rushes to the surface, the smooth, even beauty of it scored through with white lines where the sharper tail of the whip has cut. His skin is broken in at least a dozen places, and thin lines of fresh blood seep through and slide down toward the curve of his arse. He is sagging in the bondage now, his strong legs barely holding him, all the fighting and the noise and the wanton arching drawn out of him by the simple application of pain.

John takes him down slowly, eases him onto the bed and begins the routine of checking him over for damage, cleaning up the mess he has made of Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock is clingy and quiet and needy like this, not quite gone from the room, but somehow not here with John either. His fingers tap out an idle tattoo against John’s kneecap, arrhythmic, too vague for John to hear. He refuses to let John move too far away, seeking him out with his fingers, his eyes closed and his face turned resolutely into the pillows.

They do not speak, because there is nothing to say. Sherlock has many addictions, vices which he uses to escape from himself. This is merely another tool for him. John is little more than an enabler, the constant care-giver that Sherlock so desperately needs, the one who provides. It is better that he achieve his highs in this way, at least.

They sit in silence on John’s small and solid bed, Sherlock’s head resting in John’s lap when John is done tending to the wounds. John curls his fingers lightly into Sherlock’s hair, strokes the ruffled curls and teases them out gently, until they are smooth and bouncy again. He works on putting Sherlock back together one piece at a time.

“You never ask why,” Sherlock says quietly, in a voice that is not yet quite his own.

It takes John a moment to return from his own thoughts, and another moment still to process the unspoken question.

“I don’t need to ask why,” he says, feeling Sherlock’s fingers still on the sheets, the rhythm lost and the silence smothering. He imagines the curve of Sherlock’s smile against his jean-clad thigh, can see quite clearly the knowing, mocking look that must grace the other man’s face.

The skin on the back of Sherlock’s neck is warm and smooth, and when John rubs against it firmly Sherlock settles in again, picking up the beat of his song from where he left it and relegating the silence back to the corners of the room.

“I like you like this,” John muses, speaking more to the curtains than to Sherlock himself, still rubbing circles over the vertebrae in Sherlock’s neck. “I wonder how many other ways I could find to take you apart.”

Sherlock is still too far away for proper words, it seems, but the texture of his skin seems to change under John’s hands, as though his body has woken up again and is yearning for John’s touch. Careful not to jostle Sherlock’s head, John reaches down and traces the ridge of his upper shoulder-blade with a steady finger, following the line from his inferior angle up his medial border. He is always careful to keep the whip away from here, where Sherlock’s skin is stretched thin and pale over the bone.

John closes his eyes for a moment, picturing the web of nerves that spread from Sherlock’s spinal column outwards, seeing the clusters in his mind’s eye and overlaying that onto Sherlock’s skin. He lifts Sherlock’s left arm gently, turning it and following his median nerve all the way down to his wrist. Sherlock barely moves, but the soft whisper of his breath against John’s thigh slows just a little, and John allows himself a small smile of victory as he lowers his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to the cluster of veins he finds there. He pauses just long enough to feel Sherlock’s heartbeat quicken.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is soft, but it is entirely his own once more. This is the moment of decision, and John closes his eyes to keep from tightening his posture, running the pad of his thumb over the jumping pulse in Sherlock’s wrist. This is not how they play. John does not allow himself this pleasure, it is too precious, too dangerous, not worth the risk of losing such a willing and beautiful playmate for. “Don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s voice is thick with something that John can’t define, his pulse fast and strong under John’s thumb. John allows himself a minute to savour this moment, letting it course through his veins like a rich wine, anchoring him here and now where there is Sherlock and time and nothing is yet broken.

Moving carefully, he raises Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth and licks a teasing stripe across his palm. When he blows across it lightly, Sherlock’s reaction is better than he ever dared imagine. Post-flogging, he is gorgeously sensitive and responsive, a shiver running all the way down his spine. John wants to chase that shiver with his mouth, seek out every cluster of nerves until Sherlock is nothing but a mess of sensation.

He forces himself to slow down, concentrating on Sherlock’s hand, the relative coolness of the tips of his fingers, the thousand tiny scars that he can feel with his lips and tongue. Sherlock’s fingers are sensitive, and soft, half-desperate sounds pour from him as John licks and sucks on them, using every trick he knows to make Sherlock writhe and moan.

“John.” Sherlock says his name like a prayer, repeats it over and over, his breath hot and damp against the inside of John’s thigh. He moans when John finally releases his hand, letting it fall back to the mattress before Sherlock reaches for him again, desperate to maintain the contact between them.

In his mind, he toys with possibilities, the introduction of soft kisses in return for harsh bites, of long, drawn-out petting in exchange for tight bonds and painful contortions. He has a sudden and overwhelming urge to drag his nails up from Sherlock’s arse to his shoulders, to open all the scratches there and keep Sherlock from getting too comfortable with this new element of pleasure in their play.

The sound Sherlock makes when he does is like nothing John has ever heard, half-scream of pain, half groan of deep-seated need, as though John has bypassed his back entirely and reached directly into his ribcage. John knows then that he will never get enough of Sherlock, that he will not be satisfied until he has taken Sherlock to pieces right there on the bed sheets.

“I’m going to break you open,” he whispers, and Sherlock cries out once more.

If John had even considered the possibility of anything more with Sherlock, he would have been better prepared, perhaps with restraints and blindfolds and toys. But maybe it is better like this, more intimate and challenging to take Sherlock apart with nothing more than his hands and his mouth and his voice.

“Sit up,” he commands softly, easing a hand through Sherlock’s hair and under his jaw to raise his head a little. It takes Sherlock a while to comply, still sluggish and slow, riding the wave of endorphins from his earlier whipping. His face is crumpled slightly, cheek bearing the mark of the seam of John’s jeans that John smudges away with his thumb. He is truly beautiful like this, eyes deep with wonderment, looking as young as John has ever seen him.

John presses forward before he can stop himself, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and holding him still as he presses their mouths together, tasting the faint tang of salt on Sherlock’s lips. Whatever rules of engagement they had previously adhered to are scattered to the four corners of the room now, and John pushes on recklessly, tilting his head for a better angle and urging Sherlock to open up to him.

Sherlock’s mouth is like a furnace, slick and soft and everything John has ever needed. He gives himself over completely, making tiny needy noises into John’s mouth as he sucks on John’s tongue. When Sherlock choses to do something, he does it to the best of his ability, and kissing, it would seem, is no exception. John lets his hand slide down, fingers curling lightly around Sherlock’s throat until Sherlock shivers. His breath comes in short little pants as he sucks and nips at John’s mouth, body tense with desperation, his left hand curled tightly around John’s thigh.

There will be no going back from here. John knows it as soon as Sherlock pulls away with a soft groan. He will never get enough of the arch of Sherlock’s neck, the way Sherlock closes his eyes when John licks over his pulse point, grazes Sherlock’s jugular with his teeth. He knows now that he has always wanted more, that somewhere in his mind, he always meant to have Sherlock in this way. Now that he has him, John is determined to ruin him for everyone else, to see to Sherlock’s every need and break him so completely that he will always come back to John.

He leaves a scattering of bruises across Sherlock’s throat, working his way down to Sherlock’s shoulder where John bites down hard, claiming Sherlock with his teeth and soothing the pain away with a gentle tongue. Sherlock’s hands brush vaguely against the back of his shirt, as though he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and the idea of Sherlock confused and unsure is immensely endearing.

“Close your eyes,” John tells him, and allows himself a small smile of triumph when Sherlock obeys without a word of protest. He places a hand on Sherlock’s throat again, guiding lightly until Sherlock is sprawled across the bed, flinching just a little when his back makes contact with the sheets. Anything too vigorous will have to wait a while, but John has better plans for them this evening. Sherlock’s eyelids do not even flutter when John moves to kneel between his thighs. 

Despite the amount of meals he forgets to eat, Sherlock is in immensely good shape. John has appreciated Sherlock’s body in many different ways over the months that he has lived at 221b, but he has never seen him in quite this light. The muted rays of the evening sun have crept through John’s curtains to cast a warm orange light across the bed, shadows highlighting the long smooth planes of Sherlock’s stomach, the wiry strength of his thighs. His cock is long and sleek, the head resting in the dip of his pelvic bone, and John aches to reach down and take it into his mouth.

Taking a few deep breaths, John gets himself back under control. He starts with his hands, curling his fingers over the sharp curves of Sherlock’s hip-bones and sweeping across the vulnerable skin between them with the pads of his thumbs. Sherlock moves to arch, mouth open on a silent moan, and then hisses instead as his tender back catches on the blankets.

The gorgeous conflict that washes over his face at that sends a shiver of want down John’s spine, and he sweeps his thumbs back up again, just to watch the way Sherlock’s every muscle tenses to fight the involuntary squirming. Trying to keep from moaning, John slides his hands slowly up Sherlock’s chest, feeling his heart beating against the walls of his rib-cage, skin blood-warm and flushed with desire.

When John leans in and places a line of kisses up Sherlock’s stomach, Sherlock whines and throws his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. John can’t help but lean up to kiss under his jaw, biting down just hard enough to make Sherlock gasp and move to pull away. He wonders idly how many men Sherlock has done this with, how many people have had the pleasure of kneeling between his thighs and watching his body move under their touches. It doesn’t matter, John is determined to make him forget them all.

He alternates soft kisses with sharp bites, raising tiny erythema across the smooth canvas of Sherlock’s chest and stomach. The muscles there contract and relax under his mouth, Sherlock tense and panting and desperate, arching and dropping back down again with soft hisses and quiet whimpers of pain.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, over and over again. “John. John. Please.”

By the time John leans down and licks a wet stripe up Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock is a quivering mess of sensation. He is pliant under John’s hands, spreading his thighs wantonly as John settles down between them, licking and sucking far too lightly to bring him off. Sherlock is flushed all over, a thin sheen of sweat over his chest and throat. He has kept his eyes closed all the while, his fingers white where they are curled into the sheets, as though he is clinging on for dear life.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, deliberately letting his breath ghost over the spit-slick head of his cock. “Sherlock, open your eyes.”

He waits until Sherlock obeys before swallowing him down in one smooth movement, holding Sherlock’s gaze as the other man’s eyes go wide. He has been teetering right on the edge for so long at it barely takes a moment for John to pull him right over it, and then Sherlock is gasping, his eyes falling closed as he comes.

The perfect silence that follows is not smothering at all.

END


End file.
